


Diamonds on the Soles of their Shoes

by Rehfan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, First Dates, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Mycroft in a Sex Pistols shirt, Robbery, Sleeping Together, Sleepy Cuddles, Snarky Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 09:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2383124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft controls the date, until he doesn't. It's a good thing Lestrade is the protective type.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He's a rich boy...

_She’s a rich girl_

_She don’t try to hide it_

_Diamonds on the soles of her shoes_

_He’s a poor boy_

_Empty as a pocket_

_Empty as a pocket with nothing to lose_

 

 

The detective swirled out of the room and made his way out of the abandoned warehouse. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade shook his head, removed himself from the crime scene and lit a cigarette. There were too many questions and not enough answers for his taste and the thought of the paperwork that would be added to his already stressful workload made him cringe. Sherlock just made things worse sometimes.

He was glad to see the back of him tonight. It meant that he was going to make a lot more progress in a shorter time than Lestrade and his team would – which was a shit thing to say about the police force at New Scotland Yard – but he had to hand it to the madman: he was a flipping miracle worker. As much as it galled him to have to seek outside help, he felt he would be a fool for not bringing the detective in on the tougher cases.

“And you’d be right, detective inspector.”

“Jesus!” said Greg turning to face a very smug Mycroft Holmes. “Christ, you should wear a bell, do you know that?”

“Tut-tut, DI Lestrade,” he said, an impish glint in his eye. “That would take all the fun out of making you jump - although you do seem in need of a holiday.”

“Yes,” he said. “I am. But I can’t go on one for two very good reasons.”

“And they are an active case and?” asked Mycroft.

“And no money to do it with,” he said grimly. “In case you haven’t heard, police officers don’t make very much by way of take-home pay.”

“The honest ones don’t,” observed Mycroft.

“Are you trying to suggest something, Mr. Holmes?” he said warily. Mycroft Holmes was a higher muckity-muck in the British government but Greg had never been able to determine exactly which office he worked for, no matter whom he asked. That alone told him one of two things: either Mycroft Holmes was incredibly necessary to the country or he was that wealthy to be able to be that hidden behind Her Majesty’s skirts. Either way, it didn’t spell anything good.

“Not at all, DI Lestrade,” said Mycroft.

“Because it sounds like you’re maligning the police force that helps protect you from bad people,” said Greg, stamping out his cigarette. Even if his words got him killed by government thugs in the night, he would defend the honor of his chosen profession.

“Not at all!” He leaned on his umbrella handle and Greg had to hand it to him: he cut a self-righteous figure. Where his brother was abrupt to the point of caustic, Mycroft Holmes was flawlessly diplomatic to the point of being extremely unnerving. His confidence was enough to get Greg’s hackles up. He was weighing the options of hitting him when Mycroft spoke again: “And I will even go so far to say that I’m sure that everyone in the employ of New Scotland Yard is beyond reproach. After all, they solve crimes and keep our streets safe.”

“As opposed to government spooks who spy on people for money,” Greg replied. He smirked when he saw Mycroft’s panache slip by a fraction.

“You have a point,” Mycroft said with that firm smile that thinly disguised insult. His eyes were chips of flint under the streetlamp and Greg prepared himself to go down fighting. Mycroft gestured to a black car with the tip of his umbrella. “May I offer you a ride home or back to your cluttered desk, perhaps?”

_You can buy me a drink, you prig._

Mycroft stiffened his posture and took a breath. “There’s whiskey in the car,” he sighed, world weary.

“Wha- How?” said Greg. “One of these days you Holmes boys will have to tell me how you read people’s minds like that.”

“Not likely,” said Mycroft as he ushered a very knackered DI Lestrade to the back seat of a posh black car.

 

~080~

 

“You really should consider a holiday, Detective Inspector,” said Mycroft.

“Greg,” he corrected as he poured himself a second drink, “the name’s Greg.”

“Gregory,” said Mycroft as he delicately removed the decanter from the inspector’s grip. “And you have had quite enough, I think.”

Greg laughed. “I think I know my own limits, Mycroft Holmes.”

Another tight smile. “Perhaps that is true, but still…” He raised his voice and addressed the driver, “George? The Wolsey. Call ahead. Tell them it’s me.”

“The what?” said Greg, gobsmacked. The Wolsey was one of the finest restaurants in the city and right next door to the Ritz Hotel. Greg had been past it a thousand times; with its beveled glass, marble, and dark wood columns it was like something out of dream. Through the front door window it was all old-world charm and white table cloths, efficient wait staff and three forks next to your plate. Needless to say, he had never eaten there.

“Don’t worry, Gregory,” said Mycroft. The smile was softer this time. He patted the detective’s knee. “I’ll tell you which fork to use.”

 

~080~

 

Four courses later and the detective was stumped. No part of their conversation that evening had remotely touched on anything of importance, anything meaningful. It was all about the weather and the excellent service they were getting at the restaurant. The nagging question of why Mycroft had bought him a very expensive meal was still up in the air and Greg hadn’t the stones to ask directly.

Usually Greg would go to nicer places for special occasions, but this was a random Saturday night in London and they managed to (without a reservation) get a table perched way in the back of the room and overlooking the rest of the dining floor a level below. It was like dining with the gods. Mycroft had told him that the building was once a car show room, “but that was back in the twenties.” And that was as much information as he would get out of the elder Holmes without a direct interrogation.

If he were honest, he didn’t expect much out of him really. Even if he had asked, Holmes would most likely not answer. So was this night out just Mycroft being a peacock, showing off his feathers for the member of the unwashed masses he deigned to acknowledge tonight? A small part of Greg wondered if he wasn’t one of a group of select nobodies Mycroft would dust off and show how the silver teaspoon crowd lived for a time. He had eaten his meal in silence after that thought and waited for the end of it as Mycroft stirred a single sugar cube into his espresso and watched Greg sip at his café Americano.

“Well?” he asked. “What do you think of the Wolsey?”

“Best place I’ve ever eaten at,” said Greg. It wasn’t a lie.

“It is quite good,” said Mycroft as he surveyed the floor below like a man choosing a lobster to boil for his meal. “A few too many tourists for my taste, but the prices keep the less couth ones going to Nando’s.”

“I like Nando’s,” Greg muttered.

There’s that tight smile again. “And now that you’ve dined here, your future dining experiences will be… different, I’m sure.”

Greg narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. “You really are a snobbish prick, you know that?”

“I am aware, Gregory,” he said and took a tiny sip of his espresso.

 

~080~

 

Mycroft held up his umbrella and waved over the driver. The machine pulled up to the kerb with a purr. “So will it be home or work?” asked Mycroft.

“I’ll just take the tube,” said Greg nodding toward the underground station that was just across the street.

“But I thought we were having a good time?” asked Mycroft. He truly looked mystified. Actually, to Greg, he looked like Greg’s headmaster in school asking why Greg couldn’t keep his grade up in English so that he could continue on the football team. He looked like a man who expected more from someone who couldn’t give him anything. He looked like…

“Good time?” asked Greg. “Did you think- ?“ Greg had to be wrong. He couldn’t possibly consider it. He asked anyway. “Did you think this was some kind of a date?”

He was expecting that tight smile again, the one that said he had gotten it wrong. He didn’t see it. What he did see took his brain a few moments to process: Mycroft Holmes actually blushed. Greg had to hand it to him: he did recover quickly. He coughed and cleared his throat before saying: “Really, detective inspector? What do you take me for? A spotty teenager?”

Greg leaned back a bit and crossed his arms evaluating the man that stood before him. Sure he was attractive, but anyone would be in a bespoke suit like that with shoes and belt to match. Greg had the sudden urge to see Mycroft navigating a Nando’s chicken wrap, wiping hot sauce from the corner of his mouth as he chewed, tasting the lingering spice on his lips with their first kiss.

“What the hell are you grinning at, detective inspector?” asked Mycroft. His spine had gone rigid in the few moments Greg had taken to observe him. He was becoming angry.

“I thought you were going to call me Gregory,” he said. His voice had a predatory edge to it that surprised even him.

“I was, yes,” stammered Mycroft. The man was incapable of recovering from his embarrassment.

“You aren’t used to not being in control, are you?” asked Greg. He took a step closer, his arms still crossed.

“I don’t know what you mean, det- Gregory,” said Mycroft. “Now are you going to the office or to your home? I haven’t all night.”

Greg stepped closer again, dropping his arms and clasping his hands behind him. His face was right in Mycroft’s when he spoke again: “You haven’t? But I thought this was a date?”

“I don’t-“ said Mycroft, blushing yet again. He never finished the sentence. He was too captured by the detectives deep brown eyes… and his pink tongue as it came out to lick his lips.

“Let’s go for a walk,” said Greg suddenly.

“What?” Mycroft blinked himself out of his trance.

“Yeah,” said Greg, warming to his idea, “it’s a lovely night, not too cool, not too warm, and Green Park is right there.” He pointed over Mycroft’s shoulder down the street to the walled-in greenery.

“Isn’t that park dangerous at night?” asked Mycroft.

“Oh don’t be so afraid, Mycroft,” said Greg, taking him by the arm, “you have a professional police officer as your personal escort this evening. I’ll make sure no bodily harm comes to you.” George got out from behind the wheel curious as to where his employer and the gentleman were headed. Greg called back to him, “Meet us up at the Victoria Memorial. We’re going for a little stroll.”

 

~080~

 

Arm in arm, they walked into the night air. It was a perfect evening for just such a walk and Greg watched Mycroft carefully out of the side of his eye for any more of that delicious blushing. “I never thanked you for the meal, Mycroft. Thanks. It was truly an once-in-a-lifetime experience for me. I’ll probably never taste food like that ever again.”

“I doubt that,” said Mycroft.

Greg gave a snort of derisive laughter. “What? You think me and my mates regularly attend high tea at the Wolsey? Oh sure, every other Wednesday we’re dining on escargot and lobster at the Balthazar. But you know, nothing compares to the high tea at the Wolsey on a Thursday.” He grinned stupidly at Mycroft who managed to look disgusted.

“Now who’s the snob, Gregory?” he asked.

Greg barked out laughter. “Fair enough.”

They turned into the park, staying to the main path that led diagonally through it. Mycroft was stiff-spined and alert. “It’s alright, Mycroft,” said Greg. “Word is there were only three robberies in this park last month. We’ve doubled our night patrols. It’ll be fine.”

“I hate walking anywhere when I have a perfectly good automobile at my beck and call,” said Mycroft. It sounded like a flimsy excuse to Greg, but he led him toward the first clearing where at its center was one of the gigantic lamps in the park.

“Nonsense,” he said as they made their way toward the light. “You’re not that lazy. I can tell you work out.”

“You can?” Mycroft seemed to visibly relax the closer they got to the clearing. The rest of the park was ill-lit until you got closer to the monument. They stood in the pool of light like it was a deserted island in the middle of an inky sea.

“Sure,” said Greg. He stopped their progress just under the lamp to feel Mycroft’s arm and gave the bicep a squeeze. “Definitely.”

Mycroft looked at Greg, his eyes narrowing. The silver of his hair was highlighted under the lamplight, but the angle of the light brought the shadows to his eyes which glinted over a small evil grin. “Under this light you look practically feral,” he remarked.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Greg grinned fully and in the most wolfish way.

“I’m not entirely certain,” said Mycroft. “Although I must say I prefer you with the close-cropped hair you have now.”

“Me too,” he said, rubbing a hand through his silver hair. “It’s much softer too. Go on, have a feel.”

“I’d really rather not,” said Mycroft. He was eyeing a couple that was coming toward them in the dark. When they’d passed, he added: “It’s not something people should do in public.”

“A snob and a prude!” said Greg. “Jesus wept, Mycroft! I bet you haven’t even had a proper snog in public.”

“Certainly not,” said Mycroft and he strode a few steps away toward the main path. He stopped and turned when he realized that the security of Greg’s presence had disappeared. “Are you coming?”

“Kiss me,” said Greg. He was taking a hell of a chance and he knew it. If dealing with Mycroft Holmes on a professional level happened to be a pain in the arse, he could only imagine the torture of dealing with the man on a personal level. But perhaps Mycroft didn’t have relationships? Greg imagined him referring to them as “entanglements” and never keeping lovers for any length of time. As he watched Mycroft become terrified at his words, he wondered how he dispatched his lovers after he got bored - and how good his chances were at becoming more than an entanglement.

“I think not,” said Mycroft.

“Do you not want to?” asked Greg.

Mycroft paused. “I didn’t say that.”

“So?”

“So?”

“So get on with it!” said Greg. “Come here, Mycroft. I won’t bite.”

“I shall not,” said Mycroft firmly. “Now let us leave this place. I have a million things to worry about and snogging you in a public place nevermind a darkened park under lamplight where anyone and their brother could see us is not one of them. Come along, Gregory.” He strode away for a few more paces before turning back again. They were clearly at an impasse: Greg under the light, his face all shadows; Mycroft at the edge of the light’s glow, his face a well-lit mask of stubborn willfulness. Each man was wanting his own way and not getting it.

“Fine,” said Mycroft and Greg could see the firm smile was back in its rightful place, “you stay here and I’ll go on. It seems that this was entirely a waste of my time. My apologies to you for wasting yours. Goodnight.” He walked on toward the Victoria monument and his waiting car. Greg let him go for a few more paces before following him into the darkness.

Up ahead the paths split and Greg hoped Mycroft had taken the right-most one as that was the one that led to the monument. His walk became a light jog as he couldn’t hear a footstep in front of him and the city lights in the distance were playing silly buggers with his perception of outlines and shadows. He literally couldn’t see Mycroft anymore. His heart was racing.

“Mycroft!” called Greg. “Mycroft! It’s too dark. I can’t see you! Where did you go?”

Panic edged in at the corners of his emotions as he did his best to keep to the path and scan through the trees left and right attempting to pick out a man in a long black coat and black suit, his only defense a black umbrella. He flashed to a memory from his childhood: his grandfather trying desperately to direct his grandmother who was arranging the rabbit ears on the telly so they could watch the footy match. The telly gave them nothing but static as she fiddled until finally his grandfather exclaimed: “If I wanted to try and find a polar bear in a snowstorm, this would be the show to watch.”

This was the negative of that.

He spun and looked everywhere for a black bear at midnight, seeing and hearing nothing but the omnipresent distant sound of traffic. Myc!” he shouted. A muffled scuffling sound reached his ears and he ran toward it instinctively. A thrill of triumph went through him as he remembered his mini torch in his pocket. “Stupid boy,” was his next thought for not realizing he had it sooner.

He lit it and nearly tripped over two men in balaclavas who were bent over a struggling Mycroft Holmes. One had a hand over Mycroft’s mouth, held a hand down, and buried a knee in his stomach as the other held Mycroft’s opposite hand down and searched his pockets. “Oi! Police! Hands where I can see them!”

The two men held up hands and arms that shielded them from the torch-glare before regarding each other quickly and legging it. Greg ran to Mycroft’s side. “Myc! Are you hurt?”

Mycroft was filthy. He was out of breath and his face was red with the rush of blood to his system. He seemed as far from the smooth diplomat as Greg was likely to see in this life or the next. At first he stared dumbly into Greg’s face as if he didn’t know him. “They took my umbrella,” he said pathetically.

 

~080~

 

Greg escorted him through the park and to the car. A very surprised George opened the door and asked Greg: “Are we taking him to hospital?”

“No,” said Greg. He regarded Mycroft for a moment. All the confident air had been pushed out of him and he was a shrunken and dumbstruck version of himself. It broke Greg’s heart. “Let’s just take him home.”

Greg sat next to Mycroft in silence as they made their way to Mayfair. They pulled up in front of a column-fronted doorway and George turned to Greg and said: “I usually just drop him here, but if you’d like some help getting him inside…?”

“No thanks. I’ll manage,” said Greg and he opened the door and took Mycroft by the arm. He rose mechanically, listing toward Greg as the man wrapped an arm around his waist to support him. The car pulled off and soon Greg and Mycroft were staring at a large mahogany door with a gigantic brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. “Ebenezer Scrooge,” Greg murmured. Mycroft didn’t say a thing.

“Get your key out, Myc,” said Greg encouragingly.

Mycroft looked at Greg helplessly. “I believe the miscreants nicked them.”

“What?” asked Greg. “Then why the hell did we come all the way back to your place?” Mycroft shrugged. “Oh Jesus wept, Mycroft!”

Mycroft moved to the side of the portico and sat on the marble seating built into the structure. He leaned his head against a column and said softly: “That’s not the worst of it. They got my phone.”

“Oh shit,” said Greg. Now there was a troubling statement. “Well that would explain your catatonic state right now, Myc.” He sat beside him and put a hand over his neck, rubbing soft small circles into his skin. “What do you want to do now?”

“Obviously I need to borrow your mobile,” said Mycroft. He sat up dialing the phone Greg handed him. “And you can keep rubbing my neck. I can feel the grit of dirt I need to scrub off of me, but the sensation is otherwise extremely pleasant.” Greg smirked and suppressed a laugh as Mycroft made three massively important and entirely cryptic phone calls. He rang off the last number, handed Greg back his phone so he could call in the robbery, and gave himself over to Greg’s massage, head tilted back and eyes closed.

After he was done with his call in to headquarters, Greg asked him: “Can you call someone to let us in?” Mycroft jerked and Greg realized that the man had actually fallen asleep in the few minutes he was rubbing on him. “Sorry, mate. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s alright, Gregory,” said Mycroft, smoothing a hand over his ruffled hair and blushing. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Come here,” said Greg.

“What?” asked Mycroft.

Greg turned his body and slid to the opposite column, bracing his back against it. He brought up a foot onto the marble bench and patted at the stone surface between his legs. “Sit here. Face the door.”

“What are you proposing, Gregory?” asked Mycroft.

“Come here, you prude,” insisted Greg. After a moment, Mycroft slid himself over and between Greg’s legs. “Now turn and lean back against me,” he said.

“You’ll get filthy,” said Mycroft.

“Nevermind that now,” said Greg and he pulled Mycroft’s shoulders back gently until the man relented and his head was resting on Greg’s shoulder. Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s chest and snuggled his cheek against his head just above his ear. “There now. Rest.”

“Are you seriously suggesting that I sleep in a doorway?” asked Mycroft.

“Yes,” said Greg. “It’s only for a bit. Now hush, Mycroft Holmes, and don’t worry. I’m not going to let anything else bad happen to you tonight.” Mycroft closed his eyes and fell into the soft rhythm of Greg Lestrade’s breathing as the lights over London watched over them both.

 

~080~

 

They awoke two hours later, stiff and cold. “Perhaps this wasn’t my best idea,” said Greg as he winced and shifted, his muscles numb to the bone from the chill of the marble.

“Are you alright, Gregory?” asked Mycroft. He still looked exhausted, but better than he had been a few hours earlier.

“I’m fine,” said Greg. “Just stiff. You?”

“I am as well as can be expected,” said Mycroft. “Although I have to admit I didn’t expect to ever use these seats for sleeping in.”

“I should think that the architect who designed them was better at designing morgues,” said Greg. He twisted one way and then the other; his spine cracked satisfyingly in several places. Mycroft chuckled. “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you laugh all night, Mycroft Holmes. Good on you for being human at last.”

Mycroft chose to ignore that last remark and asked: “So what happens now?”

“Isn’t there someone who has a key?” he asked.

“Just my housekeeper and Anthea,” said Mycroft. “The housekeeper has her day off today and her days off are inviolate. Anthea is… elsewhere… working. Neither of them can help.”

“I see,” said Greg. “Well…” He stood up, stretched, and regarded Mycroft with an impish grin. “It looks like you’re spending the night with me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mycroft. “We’ll simply call George and get a room at the Ritz.”

“Oh yeah?” said Greg. “With whose money?”

Mycroft reached inside his jacket pocket for his wallet… which wasn’t there. His face dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hmmm… oh god, indeed,” said Greg. He crossed his arms and spoke directly: “You’re coming home with me. And you’re taking the night bus to do it. And you’ll eat when we get home; you look a bit peaky under this light. And you’ll take a shower. No arguments.”

Mycroft opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish. He knew when he was beaten.


	2. He's a poor boy...

Mycroft’s life had taken a turn for the surreal. He sat glumly on three night buses before they got to Greg’s flat in Hackney. Once they disembarked and began strolling up the street to the small path that led between the buildings and around the corner to Greg’s home, he clung to the detective inspector as if he were going to get mugged again. “You live in this section of the city willingly?” he asked him as Greg unlocked his door.

“I like this neighborhood,” said Greg. “You get a lot of good hard-working folk here. And my neighbors like knowing there’s a policeman about. Not a lot of crime in this part of the borough.”

“That’s only because there’s nothing worth stealing in this borough,” said Mycroft disdainfully. Greg shrugged. He wasn’t wrong.

Once inside, they mounted the stair to the first floor and Mycroft waited again for Greg to unlock the door. “At least it doesn’t smell like boiled cabbage,” Mycroft muttered.

“Nah,” said Greg, “it only smells like that on Sundays.” The door opened with a push and Mycroft found himself standing in the middle of Greg’s sitting room. Greg locked the door behind them with three different locks.

“Not a lot of crime?” asked Mycroft, raising an imperious eyebrow.

“I have a telly and sound system in here that most folks would want,” said Greg. “And I don’t like to take chances – even in a good neighborhood.” He stripped off his jacket, tossing it over a chair by the door as Mycroft stood there dumbly. It was a simple room, open planned: kitchen to the right, sitting room to the left and two doors on either side of the sofa opposite the front door. One presumably led to the bedroom, the other to the bath. It was compact enough for one person; two people made it cozy. The sitting room was dominated by the sofa which was an “L” shape and seemed quite cushiony. Opposite that was a flat screen television flanked by upright speakers. Greg wasn’t wrong: had he been a thief, that would be where Mycroft would start. He supposed Greg would have paid an entire month’s wages for that entertainment system. Mycroft thought it a waste, but then, television held little interest.

“Did you want to watch something?” asked Greg.

“Hmm? No,” said Mycroft. He flashed a small polite smile at him. “I have no intention of staying here overlong.”

“Don’t be daft, Mycroft,” said Greg. “You’re here for the night. Here, let me help you with your coat.” Mycroft allowed himself to be divested of his overcoat and watched with a moue of dismay as it was unceremoniously draped over the inspector’s jacket.

“Haven’t you a cupboard for coats?” he asked.

“No,” said Greg. “I haven’t a wine rack or a valet either. I hope that’s not too distressing.” He crossed his arms and regarded Mycroft. “You need a bath,” he said decisively and turned toward the door nearest the kitchen. From Mycroft’s vantage he could see cool blue tile and white walls. Seconds later there was water running and Greg appeared again. “Come on in and strip down. Test the water before you get in. Make sure it’s not too hot.”

Mycroft entered the bathroom and did as he was bid. It was useless to argue with the man anyway. He quit his clothing and folded it, placing it on the closed commode lid. He slipped into the water, leaned back, and stared at a stain on the ceiling that had obviously been the result of water damage from the flat above. He frowned. As far as he was concerned, this place was barely livable. He supposed that he should be grateful that there weren’t cockroaches swimming with him. The though made him shudder.

“Water shouldn’t be cold, Myc,” said Greg as he poked his head in. A towel and flannel were in his hands and he placed them within arm’s reach on the floor beside the tub.

Mycroft reflexively covered himself. “Do you mind?” he asked.

“What? Have you got something down there that I don’t have? A third testicle perhaps?” asked Greg.

“Oh don’t let’s be vulgar, Gregory,” said Mycroft.

Greg chuckled at the sight of a blushing Mycroft in his tub, skin pinking up from the hot water, an uncomfortable look on his face. “Well, there’s a flannel there on top. Don’t forget to wash behind your ears,” he called out as he closed the door behind him.

The sound of the telly in the other room greeted his ears and Mycroft lay back in the water and sighed. He could still feel the grime on his face and he splashed some water on it to clear most of it away. He would scrub himself properly in a minute, but just then the water felt good all around him and he lay there listening to its slosh and trickle against the side of the tub. He leaned back and closed his eyes and imagined strong arms around his chest and warm breath against his ear.

Minutes later, he awoke with a start and a splash. The water had gotten colder, but wasn’t unbearable and he blushed to think that he had fallen asleep again in such an inopportune place. He sat up, took up the flannel and completed his ablutions. As he stood dripping on the mat and wrapping the towel around him, he noticed that his clothes were gone. He didn’t remember Gregory coming in to take them. A thrill of alarm went through him as he realized that not only had Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade seen him naked in the tub _twice_ , he had also seen him naked and _asleep_ in the tub.

Now he was angry.

He could still hear the telly outside the door and he pulled the plug on the tub and strode out into the sitting room clutching his towel. “What is the meaning of taking my clothing from me?” he accused. “And more to the point, why didn’t you knock first?”

“I did,” said Greg who had exchanged his street clothes for a soft red t-shirt displaying the logo for Manchester United over one breast and grey sweatpants. He sat on his couch with a beer in hand and his feet up on the hassock looking the picture of middle-class relaxed. “When you didn’t answer, I came in to check you were alright. You were dead to the world and I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Also, your clothes were filthy and while I realize that you might find it startling that I took them, I thought the 24-hour laundry and dry cleaner downstairs would be useful considering the fact that it is your only source of clothing save what’s in my closet. Would you have preferred wearing one of my suits home tomorrow?”

“No,” said Mycroft with a derisive look that would have withered any foreign minister to a whimpering mess.

Greg was unfazed. “Right then.” He reached over and tossed some clothing toward Mycroft. “Here,” he said. “It’ll do to sleep in. Sorry it’s not silks and satins. Best we can do around here is cotton.”

Mycroft picked up the black sweatpants between two fingers and looked at them disdainfully. He was even less impressed with the black Sex Pistols t-shirt advertising their “God Save the Queen” album. He glared at Greg. “I think I would rather sleep in the nude,” he said.

“No you wouldn’t,” said Greg. “I turn the heating down at night. You’ll be grateful for the extra layer.”

“Why in god’s name would do you do that?”

Greg shot him a look. “Because it’s bloody expensive! Turning it down at night helps me save money. In case you’ve forgotten, what I’ve got I’ve earned through a lot of hard work and long hours. I’m not about to piss it away on things I can’t enjoy because I’m too busy being unconscious. Besides,” he added taking another swig of his beer, “that’s why god made blankets.”

He watched Mycroft carefully as he re-inspected the offering before him. “Get dry and get dressed. Food will be here soon. I hope you like curry.”

Mycroft stifled a groan and did as he was bid. In truth, he felt much better for the bath and the clothing was soft against his skin which was a saving grace. He looked in the mirror and tried to remind himself to be grateful. He was in a rough place and this was better treatment than he would have gotten from his dear brother. The doctor would have been kind, but Sherlock would have been unbearable.

As he emerged once again from the bathroom, there was a buzz at the intercom. “That’ll be food,” said Greg and he leapt up to buzz the delivery guy in and ran back to the bedroom for his money. Mycroft watched him from his perch on the edge of the couch. The t-shirt on the detective’s back was a tad tight, but not restrictively so and Mycroft noticed the play of his muscles underneath. The gym trousers also displayed a nicely turned arse and as Greg came back into the sitting room with the food, Mycroft blushed to notice that the man had eschewed underpants. It was one thing to be given no choice in the matter, as Mycroft had, but quite another to choose to go without on purpose.

“You alright?” asked Greg. “You’re looking a bit peaky again.”

“I’m fine,” he assured him. As Greg opened the boxes of fish and chips and blood pudding, the smells reminded him of how hungry he actually was. “I suppose I’m just peckish.”

“Ah well you’ll enjoy this then,” he said with a grin. “Best chippy in Hackney. I got fish and chips for both of us, but I love blood pudding as well, so I didn’t know if you’d want that. Whatever we don’t eat will keep. Come over here and tuck in.” He had set the food down on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Mycroft moved himself closer to Greg and took one of the fish and chips. “Blood pudding? I’ll split it with you.”

Mycroft’s mother liked blood pudding and if his memory served he recalled liking it as well but he hadn’t tasted it in years. “Just a bit of it, please,” he said. Mycroft supposed it had something to do with his level of exhaustion, but it was the best food he had ever tasted. Once past the first bite, he found himself letting out a grunt of pleasure. Embarrassed, he looked to Greg who was regarding him with a smile.

“Told you it was good,” he said. “Oh, let me get you a beer to wash it down. Or would you prefer wine? I have got a nice white that was given to me by the department for my last birthday. I haven’t opened it.”

Mycroft liked the idea of a white wine with his fish, but questioned the quality of the vintage. “That would depend entirely on the wine, Gregory,” he said.

“Well,” said Greg, “as you may have guessed: here at chez Lestrade we’re not all that up on our table wines. Let me get it for you. The sommelier is off duty tonight.” There was a trace of disgust to go along with his sarcasm and Mycroft had an idea that if pressed, Gregory might just blow up at him.

_Damn it, man, shut your mouth. Be kind. He’s opened his home to you. He’s clothed you and fed you. Be kind._

Greg held the bottle by the neck and held it out so Mycroft could read the label. He arched an eyebrow in surprise. “Lovely selection,” he said. “It’s one of the better ones. Whosoever chose it does know their wines. You should thank them.” He looked at Greg with sincerity. “Will you have a glass with me?”

“Uh… sure,” he said. “I’ll just go open it then.”

They toasted to a restful night and sipped at the wine. It was a good vintage and after their repast Mycroft indulged in a second glass. It made the night softer, calmer, and while he was not drunk – not by any stretch – he felt he needed to do something slightly out of character. He only hoped the detective would take him seriously.

“Thank you, Gregory,” he said feeling the discomfort of his gratitude. He didn’t like to be beholden to anyone. It was the world’s job to be beholden to him. This was a role reversal he wasn’t prepared for and it chafed and humbled him.

“You’re welcome, Mycroft,” he said and reached over to rub at his neck in those same delicious small circles he had used earlier that evening. Mycroft closed his eyes and lost himself to the sensation. “Did you want to watch some more telly? Or did you want to head off to bed?”

“I don’t know that I should sleep right away on a full stomach,” said Mycroft, “but I’m a bit unfamiliar with what television options are open at this time of night.”

“We could pop in a film,” said Greg.

“Aren’t you tired?”

“I’m too worried about you to fall asleep,” he said.

Mycroft looked down at his wine glass. It had just one more swallow in it and he drank it down. “A movie sounds good,” he said.

Among the action/adventure movies Greg had, there were a few classic ones. Greg put on “The Maltese Falcon” and as the opening credits played, he settled himself back into the “L” of his couch just as Mycroft had found him when he exited the bathroom. Greg glanced over at Mycroft. “Is this alright?

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “I quite enjoy this film.”

“Me too,” said Greg. “I like to think that when I first saw it as a kid, it was one of those things that made me want to become a policeman.”

Mycroft smiled at that. “Fitting.” A sudden chill went through him, despite the warming effects of the wine.

“Come here, Mycroft,” said Greg. He patted at the cushion between his legs and sat up a bit.

“I hardly think that’s necessary, Gregory,” said Mycroft blushing.

Greg leaned over to him and said: “Sometimes unnecessary things are necessary. You’ve had a hard day. You need this and you know it. Now come here.” Mycroft was silent for a long moment. He eventually moved over and into the cradle of Greg’s body without comment. He settled himself back against him relishing his heat. Greg handed him a cushion from off the sofa. “Put that under your knees,” he said. It was a round bolster pillow and it fit snugly beneath him, making his back relax. A throw blanket was over the back of the sofa and Greg used it to cover them both. “There now, short of a bowl of popcorn, we’re all set to watch this properly.” He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s chest just as he had before, his warm breath tickling the top of Mycroft’s left ear. Greg nuzzled at his hair and placed a gentle kiss to his temple. “Alright then?”

Mycroft sighed and relaxed. “Blissfully contented, thank you Gregory.”

“I’m surprised you know how to relax,” chuckled Greg, moving his hands to Mycroft’s shoulders and rubbing there. “You claim it’s me that needs a holiday. I think it’s you that could use one.”

“Not likely in my profession,” said Mycroft. “The concept is practically laughable.”

“What precisely is your profession?”

“I occupy a minor position in Her Majesty’s government,” said Mycroft.

Greg tilted his head aside to look askance at Mycroft. “I don’t think you’re that minor if you can’t take a holiday once in a while.” Mycroft didn’t say anything to that. Greg leaned in closely to his ear and teased: “Mycroft Holmes, are you telling me porkies?”

Mycroft giggled. He couldn’t help it. Gregory Lestrade was too completely adorable. He turned his face toward him and considered kissing him for a long moment. He could see that Gregory was considering the same based on how his smile slowly faded and how his eyes flicked to Mycroft’s mouth… and how he licked his lips. Mycroft sent a hand up behind Greg’s head and pressed his mouth to Greg’s slowly, savoring the flavor of warm wine and Greg.

“You were right,” said Mycroft as the kiss broke, “your hair really is quite soft.”

 

~080~

 

Mycroft Holmes actually giggled. He seriously giggled. And Greg was chuffed to have been the one to cause it. He was just as thrilled to earn a kiss from him as well. It was a surprisingly tender kiss. Greg had imagined that Mycroft’s kisses would either be perfunctory or lackluster from inexperience. He was wrong on both counts.

Greg closed his eyes and enjoyed Mycroft carding a hand through his hair. “I told you it was soft.”

“Yes,” said Mycroft gently, his lips brushing Greg’s as he spoke and waking a tingle along Greg’s skin. Greg caressed down Mycroft’s arms as he leaned in by a fraction of an inch to press his lips to Mycroft’s. He noticed Mycroft’s hands smoothing down his legs and felt heat spread to his groin.

“Settle down now and watch the film,” said Greg, attempting to stem the tide of his ever-growing interest in Mycroft Holmes. He knew that if things get out of hand now, he may lose this intriguing man forever. He didn’t want to be another notch on his bedpost, discarded like a dull razorblade come the morning. He wanted this to go on if it could. He could only hope his conservative approach wouldn’t bore Mycroft. It was a tough line to walk.

Mycroft snuggled back into him and Greg did his best to not lose complete control and flip them both to the floor and rut against him. He focused his concentration on the film and found himself becoming more and more comfortable with the warmth and pressure of Mycroft’s body. He didn’t realize he had fallen asleep until the sound from the television stopped, the DVD’s timer shutting itself down automatically after being idle.

Greg grunted awake and Mycroft started. He had fallen asleep as well. “Christ,” said Greg. “I nodded off there. You alright?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft, sitting up and rubbing his face with his hand. “Seems we both drifted away.”

“Bedtime then,” said Greg. He groaned as he sat up. “The bedroom’s just through there. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Mycroft looked at the door Greg had indicated and back at Greg. He planted his feet on the floor and said: “Come on.”

“Wha- no no, Myc,” said Greg. “You take the bed. It’s been put in clean this morning. I’ll take the sofa. It’s not like I haven’t slept on it before. Go on. I’ll wake you in the morning.”

“No, Gregory,” he said. He smiled at him. It wasn’t the tight polite smile he always used. This smile was sleepy and covered in true affection. “It’s not as if I have the energy to shag you, you know. It would only be us two in bed.”

“But Myc-“

“Get up and come to bed. Shut off the telly. Turn off the lights. You are joining me because I’m not kicking you out of your own bed in your own house. And I’m certainly not sleeping on your ruddy sofa. So it’s either sleep with me or let me leave. I’ll return your clothing tomorrow.”

Greg blinked at him. “Jesus, you drive a hard bargain.”

“I know,” said Mycroft. The sweet smile returned. “Come along, Gregory. I fancy you. You fancy me. We’re two grown men and too exhausted to fuck. The least we can do is share a bed and some warmth and what both of us are in desperate want of: human companionship. I don’t know about you, but the life of a modest government official is rather lonely.”

“As is a detective inspector’s,” agreed Greg. “But Mycroft, I have to ask: why me?”

Mycroft looked at him without shame. There was no blush in his cheek when he asked: “Do you not know how strong you are?”

“What?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Pity and shame, Gregory.” He looked him in the eye. “You are quite possibly the most resilient man I have ever met. And I’ve met men who have been through the hell of war, captured and tortured for their secrets. You have endurance and a willingness to leap into the thick of a situation… Granted, you don’t always look before you leap and you can be lazy at times and lord knows that my brother has pulled your fat out of the fire far too often…” And there was the flash of the benign smile. “But you are dedicated and strong and stalwart and true. You do your profession credit – and your species.”

At first Greg had no response. He was dumbstruck by Mycroft’s candor. He wanted to respond with the same eloquence; he wanted to give his own speech, verbose and elegant and filled with unvarnished truth but he barely knew Mycroft. What could he say about him? That he was alright for an arrogant arse? That his overblown taste in restaurants was only exceeded by his disdain for all others who weren’t of his ilk? Eventually his sarcasm overrode his tenderness. “You really do want to fuck me, don’t you?”

Mycroft shook his head and laughed. “Get up and get in bed, you idiot.”

It was the sweetest sleep either one of them had had in a very long time. Greg curled around Mycroft, a protective arm across his chest, his lips kissed into the nape of his neck. Mycroft drifted off to the comfort of the company, the breath, the warmth.

Greg held Mycroft close, his nose buried in his hairline and breathing in the scent of soap and Mycroft - all in all, not a bad end to a harrowing day. He wanted the morning to be as pleasant as this moment was for them both. Just before sleep finally claimed him, Greg wondered if Mycroft would even be there in the morning. It would be nice to see his face smiling and sleepy again.


	3. Diamonds on the "Souls" of their Shoes

In the twilight of morning sleep, as the early dawn’s light crept over the room, Greg became aware of a stirring in his bed and a sigh. His eyes flicked open and his heart raced before he remembered Mycroft and the dinner and the robbery and the bath… oh… and the kiss. The kiss was nice. He smiled into his pillow, snuggling deeper into its softness. And then a warm hand caressed his arm and a warm kiss was placed between his shoulder blades. Greg groaned at that last.

“Good morning, Gregory,” said Mycroft. He could feel Mycroft shifting his pillow closer to the back of his head so that he could rest with his nose pressed up against his nape. The hand that had found his arm had moved to his waist and was hugging him closer. Greg scooted back until he felt the full press of Mycroft against him, warm and inviting.

“Good morning yourself, Myc,” said Greg.

There was a grunt from behind him and Mycroft said: “Do you know that I cannot tolerate anyone truncating my name? My mother does it incessantly. I try to insist that she just call me what she named me, but it’s as though the woman doesn’t give a damn.”

“Sorry, Mycroft,” said Greg. “I’ve done that a couple of times now. I didn’t know it pissed you off.”

“Counting this morning, you’ve done it eight times since last night when we met,” said Mycroft.

Greg groaned and rolled over and flung an arm over Mycroft’s arm. He was still sleepy and his eyes weren’t even open when he apologized again. “That’s just it,” said Mycroft, “when my mother does it, it goes right through me. When you do it… I’m not bothered in the least. Why is that, I wonder?”

Greg smirked, his eyes still shut. “Means you like me more than your mum,” he said.

“Well you are a better dining companion,” said Mycroft.

“Cheers, Myc,” he said. He felt a press of lips to his and sleepily responded. “Let’s just stay like this for the rest of the day, alright?”

“We can’t,” said Mycroft. His eyes were closed again and they lay forehead to forehead in the bed, arms wrapped about each other. “We are adults with responsibilities. We can’t just abandon our duties for temptations of the flesh.”

“Who’s talking about fucking?” said Greg. “I’m just wanting some kip with company. Is that so terrible?”

“That was what I was referring to,” said Mycroft, “but no matter. We cannot lie abed when there’s work to be done. And besides, you have to go retrieve my clothing from the dry cleaners today. I refuse to be seen in pyjama-wear in public.”

“Snob,” said Greg,

“Slob,” replied Mycroft.

“Touché,” said Greg, another small smirk playing on his face.

Had Mycroft had his eyes open he wouldn’t have thought it quite rakish on his features. As it was, for all his prompting for ambulation, Mycroft hadn’t moved a muscle. In truth, he was exhausted still and it was too early for everything – including being awake. He was convinced that it was Lestrade’s evil influence. “This is all your fault, you know,” he said.

“What is?” asked Greg.

“Me not wanting to move from this bed,” said Mycroft.

Greg let out a low chuckle that gave Mycroft gooseflesh. “Come into my parlor, said the Spider to the Fly,” quoted Greg.

“You are a wicked man,” said Mycroft. And his mind drifted off into the ether of another dream about clouds and smiles and that low chuckle that spread a delicious heat to his groin.

 

~080~

 

It was his mobile phone ringing. Greg awoke with a start – and his arm trapped under Mycroft. Mycroft was awake with the sudden jerk and reflexively asked: “What? What is it?”

“’S’my mobile,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

Mycroft grunted and rolled over away from him, curling up his pillow and bunching the duvet around him. Greg watched him with a fond smile. “Lestrade,” he said into the phone. It was Donovan telling him that Sherlock had discovered a new lead out in Brighton and did he want to be picked up at his flat? He gave her instructions to go to Brighton on his behalf, advised her to stay closer to John Watson than Sherlock during the journey, and wished her luck. She attempted to argue the point but he interrupted her telling her that he wasn’t feeling well and that he was taking a day. She could handle it. Donovan grumbled something about hazard pay and Greg sighed, thanked her, and rang off.

Just as he had set the phone down, it rang again; the number was unlisted but he took the call anyway. Greg looked at the back of Mycroft’s head. He didn’t move. Greg scrubbed a hand over his face to wake himself up more. “Hello?” he said as he padded his way to the kitchen. He didn’t want to wake Mycroft with another conversation and he wanted to start the coffee.

He heard a voice that subliminally screamed “government official” and was asked if Mr. Holmes was there to receive a bubble-wrapped package. “Its contents are highly confidential,” the man had said. Greg nodded (as if the man could see him) not quite understanding why Mycroft was getting things delivered to his flat. But then he was Mycroft Holmes, a “minor” British government official who could probably order a satellite surveillance of the Queen tomorrow morning. “Yeah, he’s still here. You can drop whatever it is off any time.” The man didn’t even say goodbye when the line went dead. Greg shook his head and turned on the coffee maker.

He returned to the bed; it was exactly the way he had left it: Mycroft was still curled up under the duvet and sleeping soundly. Greg hadn’t the heart to wake him, but still wanted to doze, now that he had the whole day to himself. He slipped under the covers as gently as he could until he was curled toward Mycroft and cringed when he saw Mycroft stir. “Sorry, love,” he said softly. “I was trying not to wake you.”

“Did someone call for me?” he asked sleepily.

“Yeah,” said Greg, “someone’s dropping something off for you here. They didn’t say when, but I’m hoping they won’t come by until about three in the afternoon.”

“Why?” said Mycroft.

“Because I haven’t enjoyed your company enough,” Greg said. “We’ve been asleep for longer than we’ve been awake, you and I. I’d like to get to know the man I’ve shared a bed with, if that’s alright.”

Mycroft smiled that sweet sleepy gentle smile Greg had hoped to see again. “There isn’t too much I can tell you that isn’t highly classified, Gregory.”

“I don’t want to know national secrets, Myc,” Greg said. “I just want to know what your favorite breakfast is; who your favorite movie star is; what’s your biggest guilty pleasure… you know: things like that.” He paused a moment and asked: “I don’t suppose you like football?”

“No,” said Mycroft.

“Right,” said Greg, “so no use asking which club you follow. So… what do you do when you think no one’s looking?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Mycroft.

“You mean to tell me that you always conduct yourself with the highest dignity you can muster at all times – even when you’re completely alone?” asked Greg, incredulous.

“Well… despite popular rumor, I am human, Gregory,” said Mycroft. “I suppose I have a certain weakness for… well…”

“Well?” said Greg.

“For… ballroom dancing,” Mycroft said at last. “But I haven’t had a lesson in ages. I miss dancing.”

Greg raised his eyebrows and just stared at him. “Somehow I can’t see you dancing to anything at all - ever.”

Mycroft smiled, sweet and lazy. “And what about you?”

“I’ve never been ballroom dancing. Wouldn’t know where to put my feet,” said Greg.

“No, darling, I mean: what’s your alone time pastime?”

“Oh… dancing too, I suppose. I do it sometimes when I’m cooking - when I’ve had time to do the shopping, that is. And it’s very far from ballroom style.”

“What style is it?” asked Mycroft.

“Lestrade-style,” said Greg and he laughed in spite of himself. “I usually put on some Sex Pistols and bop around. It’s a great stress release. Don’t suppose you’ve heard of the Sex Pistols?” He glanced down at the t-shirt front on Mycroft's chest.

“I have,” said Mycroft, pulling the shirt away to have a look at the vandalized portrait of the Queen of England. “Punk, I believe, yes?”

“Too right!” said Greg. “I love it. The Ramones, The Stooges, The Pistols… all of it is amazing.”

“I can understand how you would feel it’s a stress reliever,” said Mycroft. “But I can’t say I enjoy their songs. All too much feedback and frenzied backbeat.”

“Yeah,” said Greg. He laughed suddenly; it began with a bark and turned quickly into an uncontrollable giggle.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Mycroft.

“I just had an image of you dressed in punk-style clothes with a safety pin through your ear,” he said, his laugh making it almost impossible for him to speak. “And a purple mohawk.” His laughter shook the bed.

Mycroft turned to face him. “I’ll have you know that I did have a rebellious period in my life, Gregory Lestrade,” said Mycroft, barely disguising a small smile of amusement.

“Oh yeah?” said Greg, angling his body to face Mycroft, a great smile on his face. “Was that the day you told the cook not to cut the crusts off of your egg and cress sandwiches?”

“I wasn’t raised in a wealthy household, Gregory,” said Mycroft.

“Funny, you don’t show it,” said Greg. “So… this is all an act?” Something shifted behind Mycroft’s eyes that Greg couldn’t identify. “What is it, Myc?” He carded a hand through his hair. “Are you alright?”

“It’s not an act, _per se_ , Gregory,” said Mycroft. “I just have a certain air to maintain.”

“So it is an act,” said Greg. “Very… Eleanor Rigby.”

“Sorry?”

“You know: the Beatles’ song. ‘She keeps her face in a jar by the door’.”

“I see,” said Mycroft, “well… I suppose from a certain perspective…”

He looked so incredibly sad just then, Greg couldn’t help himself. He leaned in and kissed him full on the mouth, compassionately but with passion. His tongue licked across Mycroft’s lips and Mycroft opened his mouth in response, his own tongue searching, gliding, against Greg’s. He wanted to soothe and comfort him, to take away any shame or pain. “I’m sorry, Mycroft,” he whispered against his lips. He held him close, tucking his head down in the cradle of his shoulder. He cupped a hand against his head and circled his fingers in his hair. “You don’t have to hide here, you know. You’re safe as houses with me.”

Mycroft responded with a tight squeeze. Greg smoothed a hand down his back and up again, enjoying the feel of him under his hands. He could feel Mycroft doing the same. It was a moment of comfort they both needed. “How is it that you’re happy?” Mycroft asked him.

“What do you mean?” He tilted his face to him with a finger under his chin.

“You live in this neighborhood, a place with no great wealth. You clothes are barely passable. You only drink good wine if someone knowledgeable gives it to you. You can barely catch two miscreants in the act of robbing-“ He cut himself off for two reasons: he was actively insulting a man who had been so very kind to him; and he was choked up with tears. “How can you be happy with everything you don’t have?”

“Jesus, Mycroft,” said Greg. “Do you have any idea what a prat you sound like?” He chuckled at Mycroft’s stricken look. “You pillock. You’re supposed to be clever but you just don’t see it, do you? I mean, you seen me as strong and loyal and determined, but what do you think makes me that way? Do I do this job for the money? No way in hell. Do I live in this neighborhood because it’ll boost my reputation in the eyes of society? No chance. No, Mycroft. I live and work here in order to help the people I live and work with.

“The dry cleaners I dropped your suit at? It’s run by this South African gent and his family. They came here looking for an escape from apartheid back in the 80’s. They carved a life for themselves right here and they were glad to find out that I was only interested in their business, not their skin color – even though I was a policeman. They’re good people. When they were robbed last year, it was my pleasure to use a bit of influence to help get the bastards that did it. They thanked me by feeding me. Took me out to a meal that I knew would run them a few quid, but it was a matter of pride for them.

“I asked the old man in a more private moment whether or not he could afford it considering he was coming back from a robbery. Do you know what he said? He said for me not to worry because he had diamonds on the soles of his shoes. I had never heard of that before. Have you?” Mycroft shook his head, frowning.

“It means that you’ve got wealth. If you walk on diamonds, you’re really rich. But to him, it meant that he was rich in other ways. Money is only good if you can spend it on something worthwhile, but the worthiness of the expense is up to the individual. You think that a dinner at the Wolsey or money spent on a car and driver or a big rambling house is worth the expense. I say: money spent on night buses, cleaning a suit that isn’t mine, and feeding a person who’s in need is worth more than all your Wolsey meals wrapped up in a paper bag.

“You may have diamonds on the soles of your shoes, Mycroft Holmes, but I have diamonds on my soul.” He kissed him softly. “And I’ll share them with you. All you have to do is ask.”

Mycroft buried his face in Greg’s chest and held him closely. Greg continued to stroke his back and neck until they both drifted off to sleep once more.

They awoke again to the front door buzzer. Greg noted with a grunt that he had only been asleep for a few minutes instead of the hours he had hoped to get. “Coming, coming!” he growled as he untangled himself from Mycroft and stumbled to the door. He pressed the buzzer and said: “Yeah?”

“A delivery for Mr. Holmes,” a voice responded.

“Yeah, come on up,” said Greg. He had padded to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee when he noticed Mycroft emerging from the bedroom, yawning.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Not fucking late enough in the day for me,” said Greg. “You want a cup?” He held forth his coffee and Mycroft took it gratefully, sipping at the bitter black and sighing with relief.

There was a knock on the door. Greg went to open it but Mycroft held out a hand. “Allow me,” he said. And then Greg bore witness to the bravest thing he had ever seen Mycroft Holmes do: he faced one of his subordinates wearing baggy sweatpants, a wrinkled Sex Pistols t-shirt, and with the worst case of bed head this side of homelessness. Greg couldn’t see the man’s face, but he must have been gobsmacked because there wasn’t a word spoken except Mycroft’s curt “thank you”.

He returned to the kitchen carrying a small cardboard box and wearing a satisfied smile. “What’s in there?” asked Greg. He stirred sugar into his coffee as he watched Mycroft open the container. Inside were his mobile phone, wallet, and keys. Greg was astonished and then realized that he shouldn’t be. “A minor position in Her Majesty’s government, eh?” He gestured his mug toward the package. “How did you come to be in possession of your belongings again, Mr. Holmes?”

The tight smile was back as Mycroft said: “I have friends in high places _and_ low places, Mr. Lestrade.” He looked over his phone and after a few taps on it was satisfied that everything of importance was still secure. He set it down on the counter and picked up his coffee. Over the mug’s rim he smiled at Greg. “I have to say that this is the best outcome of a terrible evening that I’ve ever had.”

Greg chuckled. “So… am I second date material, d’you think?”

Mycroft set down his coffee and came closer to Greg, wrapping his arms around his waist. “This has been vastly different from any and all evenings I’ve spent with anyone.” He kissed him softly. “I’d like another. I’d like more of that blood pudding too, actually. And I’d like to meet your dry cleaner. Perhaps give him my custom.”

A warm smile spread over Greg’s face. “I should save your life more often.” He kissed him back just as tenderly. “Better be careful, Mycroft Holmes.”

“What of?” he asked, as he trailed small kisses down the detective’s neck.

“Your diamonds are showing,” said Greg.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Value of a Tailored Suit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2387987) by [Tammany](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany)




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